


The Rules of Proper Comportment

by roebling



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 22:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur will teach Merlin to be a proper servant if it's the last thing he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rules of Proper Comportment

**Author's Note:**

> First Merlin fic! Not beta-ed, not Brit-picked, not 100% canon compliant. Vague spoilers for series 1 (at least through 1x4). Contains non-sexual shaving kink. Posting this before I lose my nerve (again) /o\

It is summer, and Camelot is golden.

Dust hangs in the air, kicked up by the horses as the knights ride out on patrol. They are not many in number, but a single knight of Camelot is worth a dozen ordinary warriors. They are good, strong men, and their strength uploads the rule of law and justice in Camelot. As they ride, the sun shines off their armor, so bright Arthur has to look away.

He has never seen anything that’s made him as proud. He stands at his window and watches until the column of horsemen is just a dusty smudge on the horizon. He trusts his men to do good work, no matter what they encounter, and he knows them well enough to know they will, but if he had his way he would ride out on every patrol, be at the front of every charge, be in the thick of every battle.

He is the Crown Prince, though, so he cannot have his way.

The door to his chambers creaks just a little. He could have the hinge oiled, but he likes the warning it gives him. 

"You're late," he says without turning. 

Something clatters to the ground. Arthur turns, already shaking his head. Merlin has spilled a tankard of ale.

"You surely are the worst servant in the entire world," Arthur says, in a tone that communicates how long he’s been suffering his manservant’s clumsy attentions. He endures Merlin only for his father's sake. "Now you'll have to change the rushes."

Merlin stares at the spilled ale like he's not sure what it’s doing on the floor. "If you didn't stand there at the window like one of those stone gargoyle thingies and then suddenly start talking out of nowhere like a voice disembodied, I wouldn't have startled." He frowns. "Sire."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Did you startle, Merlin? My apologies. I'll be sure to keep my voice down in your presence from now on." He takes a seat at his desk. "May I eat what little of my breakfast you haven't spilled? Or will you be holding it for the duration?"

Merlin's eyes narrow, and he sets the plate down carelessly. 

There's something different about him today, Arthur realizes. He tries to pay Merlin as little attention as he can, but there's ... something. He chews thoughtfully at his bread and considers his servant. Merlin is on his hands and knees gathering up the spoiled rushes, and between his stupidly long legs and his foolishly long arms he looks a bit like a spider. That's not it though. 

When Merlin stands with the soiled rushes in his arms, Arthur snaps a finger. "A-ha!" He's got it now. Merlin's pants are rolled up to his knees, baring two pale calves covered in fine, dark hair. His ankles are slim and almost … graceful. Arthur shakes his head. He’s positive that isn’t a description that should be attached to any of Merlin's attributes. He may in fact be out of his wits with hunger.

"Merlin, what have you done to your pants? I knew you looked like more of an enormous fool than usual today."

Merlin stares down at himself. "I haven't done anything to them." He lifts up one foot, like he's got to get a closer look. "I mean, I did spill some of Gaius' tincture of violet on them the other day, but Miriam -- she's the laundress, although you don’t have occasion to notice laundresses, _Sire_ \-- helped me and the stain's almost all the way out. You can barely see it."

Arthur shakes his head, trying to clear out the detritus of Merlin's prattle about stains and soaps and laundry. "Not what I'm talking about, Merlin," he says. He chews a bit more. This bread is terribly dry. Of course Merlin would spill the ale. Everything is conspiring against him. "Although considering your lack of any natural coordination, it's not surprising. I'm wondering why you look like you're about to go wading in the river to catch eels."

Merlin grins at him foolishly. "It's hot," he says. "I know you're made out of stone, but surely even you can tell it's hotter than blazes out." 

Sometimes Arthur thinks that he ought to apprentice Merlin to his father's chief solicitor. Rarely has he ever met anyone who can say such foolish, foolish things with such an utter lack of shame.

"Merlin, how long have you been in Camelot?"

"Four months," Merlin says. "If you remember I got here just before Lady Rianne got that awful boil and kept half the castle up half the night with..."

"Four months," Arthur says. He does sympathize. He knows Camelot is far removed from the remote village that Merlin calls home. Still. "In that time have you ever seen a servant go around with his trousers rolled up to his knees?"

Merlin shrugged. "It wasn't hot four months ago, Sire."

He's hopeless. Truly hopeless. 

"Do you walk around the castle blind, Merlin?" Arthur really wouldn't be shocked if he did, smashing into walls, dropping important breakfasts, making a general muck of things. 

"No," Merlin says, sounding utterly put upon. 

It's astonishing what Arthur has to put up with, really.

"Have you noticed any other servants walking around in a state of shocking undress?"

Merlin snorts. "I would hardly say I'm walking around in a state of shocking undress. I mean, if I'd forgotten to wear pants all together, then maybe but ..."

Arthur's stomach does a funny twist. He grows tired of this conversation.

"Have you noticed any other servants wearing their trousers rolled up to their knees?"

Merlin pouts. He looks even more like a monkey than usual. Arthur is not at all susceptible to such wiles. 

"No," he mutters.

"No ...?" Arthur's been a bit lax in the past, but it's time to take a stand and insist on proper comportment. That's what's entirely lacking here.

"No, Sire," Merlin says through gritted teeth.

"And there's a reason for that," Arthur says. "This isn't some ramshackle village out in the wilds, Merlin. This is Camelot, the heart of the kingdom. Nay, of the Five Kingdoms. We must be a beacon of civilization in this dark times."

Merlin claps slowly, three times.

"Did you practice that?" he asks. "Seriously, did you have that all written down somewhere?"

"Oh get out," Arthur says, sick of this foolishness. "And don't come back until you're wearing a proper pair of pants."

He throws an inkwell to emphasize his point, but Merlin is already gone.

*****

Because Arthur is a prince in both title and spirit, he nips down to the library after his mid-day training session with the knights. Merlin is in the kennels, removing briars from the fur of Arthur's best (but worst-tempered) hunting dog. Merlin hadn't greeted that task with the enthusiasm one would expect from a paradigm of servant-hood, but Arthur's feeling generous. He realizes this may not be entirely Merlin's fault. It may only be as little as three-quarter's due to Merlin's bad attitude and general impertinence and incurable incompetence. Most of Camelot's servants are from families who have served the Pendragon name for generations. Merlin is from some forsaken, far-off place and may possibly have been raised by wolves or wild ape-men. He hasn't yet learned to appreciate the greatness that is Camelot, nor the strength and steadfastness of her ruling family. He doesn't realize what a _privilege_ it is to be the Crown Prince's manservant. 

It is a very high privilege indeed.

Geoffrey eyes Arthur warily. It's true he's not as frequent a visitor to the royal archives as he might be.

"Relax, old man," he says. "I'm not here to use your books for target practice."

Geoffrey doesn't look convinced.

"I need the Code of Conduct for Servants of the Crown," Arthur says as regally as he can manage. 

The librarian raises his bushy eyebrows. "I believe there is a copy around, yes," he says.

Arthur narrows his eyes.

"And I'll just get it for you then, shall I?"

The old man shuffles off, and after an interminable wait comes back carrying a huge tome. He sets it down on his desk and dust flies off. 

Arthur sneezes.

"This is the Code of Conduct for Servants of the Crown?"

Geoffrey gingerly opens the cover. "Indeed, sire," he says, blowing a bit more dust away. "Authored by your Great Great Uncle Turbert."

"This is ancient," Arthur says. It's really an outrage. Isn't anyone making sure the palace staff is up to regulation? Hell, there's barely a regulation for them to be up to.

"It is somewhat out of date, but it remains a remarkable source of information about the daily habits of the service class of this kingdom in the early decades of ..."

Arthur feels a yawn coming on. He stifles it, and sneezes instead.

"I must go," he says. "I appear to be allergic to your books."

He ignores the dark look Geoffrey gives him and leaves, book in hand.

He gives it it to Merlin the next morning.

"This is for you," he says.

"Oh Arthur, a present?" Merlin's eyes are bright and mirthful. "You shouldn't have!"

Arthur doesn't blush; it's not becoming a prince. "It's not a present, you dolt. It's the Code of Conduct for Servants of the Crown." He clears his throat. "I realize you didn't have the advantage of growing up in a place as cosmopolitan as Camelot, Merlin. It's only to be expected that you'd be lacking polish and grace. I thought this could help you."

"That's almost overwhelmingly kind of you, Sire," Merlin says. He's paging through the book slowly. "Just think how well I'll be able to serve you after I've mastered the Code of Conduct."

Arthur's shocked to hear Merlin say something so sensible. "Indeed," he says. "Well, we can hope."

Merlin grins. "We can only," he says. "Look at this. According to the Code of Conduct, 'if thy master' -- that's you -- 'drinketh such quantities of ale that he engageth in behavior unbecoming a nobleman, thy duty is to sober his wits by submerging him in cold water until clarity is restored to his noble mind' ... I think I like this book, Arthur. Thanks."

"What?" Arthur knits his brow. "No, it doesn't say that." Arthur hasn't actually read the book; he's not a servant. He's sure it can't say that though. He snatches it away from Merlin, but Merlin holds on. Their fingers brush, and Arthur can't understand why a weird chill runs through him.

"It was a present," Merlin says. "You can't take it back."

"It wasn't a present," Arthur says. He hadn't intended to give Merlin subversive materials that promote the dousing of inebriated noblemen. "It's property of the Crown, Merlin, which means it's _mine_. Give it here."

"No," Merlin says. "It means it's your father's, actually. And I want to read it. How else will I ever be able to live up to your expectations of docile servitude?"

"Oh you wouldn't know docile servitude if it hit you over the head," Arthur says. Really, does Merlin think he's stupid? He pulls, and Merlin pulls back, and for someone who's got the body mass of an eight year old he's surprisingly strong. Not that Arthur would ever tell him. It would go straight to his head, and next thing Merlin would be down at the tavern trying to win contests of strength and getting his head bashed in most likely. 

"I'm the picture of docile servitude," Merlin says. "Now give the book here."

All of a sudden Arthur slips, as though the very ground he's standing on has turned to ice. He flails and falls backwards and lands very hard on his bum, but he's still got the book.

Merlin looks very much like he's trying hard not to laugh. Arthur's cheeks heat up. "Oh shut up," he says. "At least I've got the ..."

He stares at the book in his hand. At the _half_ of a book in his hand. 

The other half is in Merlin's hand.

"Can you fix it?" Arthur asks gravely. 

Merlin shrugs. "I can't even serve breakfast, Sire. I don't think I'm qualified to repair an ancient tome of such value."

He really is the most insufferable person in the world. "What about Gaius?"

"He's close friends with Geoffrey," Merlin says. "He'll rat us out."

Arthur winces. That fall truly did hurt. Merlin offers him a hand, which he gingerly takes, and hauls him to his feet. "We need to put this book somewhere nobody -- not even cross librarians -- can find it. And we need to never speak of this again."

For once Merlin understands his orders perfectly.

*****

A week later Arthur is sat next to Osanna, the oldest daughter of Lord Osterlich. Arthur sat at his father’s side while the council discussed the importance of retaining Osterlich's allegiance; his holdings are not of military importance, but he rules over a port city of considerable economic value. The timber and spices and silks that flow into Camelot through Osterlich's lands are an important source of wealth. He won't risk offending the man, and so Arthur sits beside Osanna and is attentive to her and later he will have to dance with her, if she so desires.

As it turns out, Osanna seems to have no interest in dancing. She is a girl of medium height and build with fair skin and eyes even greener than Morgana's. She wears her fine gown uneasily, and responds to Arthur's entreaties with few words.

All the while, Merlin hovers, ale jug in hand. He stands to the rear of Arthur's chair silent and at attention. It's exactly what a servant should be doing at a feast, but somehow while the other servants manage to blend into the shadows at the edges of the room with such skill it seems almost like _magic_ , Arthur is totally, utterly aware of Merlin. He's aware of how Merlin shuffles his feet, how he shifts his weight. One of his shoes has a squeaky sole and Arthur can hear it every single time he moves. Arthur knows that if he turned and looked back he'd see Merlin looking supremely put-upon, like fulfilling his duties was the most laborious of trials.

He just has to ignore him. He doesn’t understand why he can’t.

"Osanna, I hear that you have undertaken a study of herbs and plants." His father had mentioned something of that nature in a disapproving tone, and Arthur had squirreled the knowledge away for later use.

Osanna smiles for the first time that evening. "Oh yes," she says. "I'm studying with the physician at my father's court, but I had dearly hoped to speak to your court physician while I'm here. Gaius' knowledge of herbal lore precedes him."

"Perhaps they'll be an opportunity next time you ..."

"Don't be daft," Merlin says. "Gaius would love to talk to you. He had me traveling the length of the kingdom to find him silver-footed foxweed, and the only reason I had the time was because Arthur ... ahem, Prince Arthur was off on patrol."

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. "Lady Osanna, I'm so sorry. My manservant doesn't know ..."

She ignores him, and turns in her seat. Resting her arms on the back of the chair she asks, "And did you find silver-footed foxweed? It's supposed to be most efficacious at cleansing bad humors, but it grows only in the deepest woods."

"I did," Merlin says. He puffs his chest a bit. "It took hours but I found some growing in a little crevice between two rocks. It favors damp soil, so I'd followed a river down to its source."

Arthur really had better interrupt this before the idiot makes a total fool of himself.

"Merlin, why don't you go see if Sir Edric needs more wine?"

Merlin blinks. "Oh, look, Lettice is filling him up, not that he needsmore to begin with. Don't you remember last time, Arthur?"

"Osanna, I apologize. My servant really has the worst tendency to prattle on, even when his attentions are unwelcome."

"Not at all," Osanna says. "Merlin, your name is? I'd love to hear more about your journey. I'm allowed only to gather herbs in the fields right around our castle, but I'd dearly like to go into the deep woods. I've just read Unrich the Elder's treatise on the restorative powers of Red Sponge Fungus."

"Oh, that stuff that only grows on the tops of pines?" Merlin shakes his head. "I nearly killed myself getting some of that." He crouches down so that Osanna doesn't have to crane her neck. He's so close that Arthur can feel the heat of Merlin's body, hear the stupid squeak of his boots. He's too close. Arthur feels closed in and annoyed and a little nauseous too. He wonders if the stuffed grouse was perhaps a bit off. 

He stands. "I need some air," he says to nobody in particular.

"Sire," Merlin says, alarmed. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Arthur says. "Yes fine. I just need a breath of air. Please, don't let me interrupt your conversation."

He steps to the back of the room, where it's quieter and the smoky pall from the torches is less suffocating. He breathes in. Stupid Merlin. He doesn't know anything about how to be a proper servant, doesn't know that it's horribly offensive for him to talk to a high-born lady like Osanna like they're bosom friends. He gets everything wrong.

He looks up. Merlin's watching him from across the room, eyes bright.

Arthur should have him thrown in the stocks for his impertinence this evening. 

He won’t, though. He just goes and makes his excuses and retreats to his room.

*****

"Arthur, you must try to reign in your charm," Uther says as they eat dinner the next day.

"Does Arthur have charm to reign in?" Morgana asks, her eyes wide and guileless. "I hadn't heard. Where did you get this charm, Arthur? Did you borrow it from someone?"

Arthur's hand is wrapped so tightly around his knife that his knuckles are white.

"Now, Morgana," Uther says, indulgently. "Indeed Arthur does have charm, more than he knows. I overheard Osanna saying to her father that she couldn't wait to come back to Camelot." He rolls his eyes. "I asked you to be pleasant to the girl, Arthur, not win her heart. What on earth did you do?"

Arthur coughs. The venison is tough, and a bit went down the wrong way. He studies a scar in the thick wood of the table. Really, the implication that he toyed with Osanna's emotions is insulting. He would do no such thing. "We simply found that we had some interests in common, Father. That's all."

Across the room, Merlin bursts into laughter, loud and delighted.

Uther scowls, brow knit. "What's the matter with you, boy?"

Arthur's head aches. Everything really is a trial designed to test his will. "Ignore him, father. He's got ... an allergy."

"An allergy," Uther says, deadpan. "An allergy that makes him laugh." He doesn't look like he's buying it. Merlin's looking at Arthur like he's got sixteen heads. 

"It's very tragic," Arthur says. "Gaius just lately came to the diagnosis. A terrible allergy to any kind of subtlety. The least bit of subtlety and he starts laughing like a loon. It's no wonder everyone thinks the poor boy is an idiot."

"An allergy to subtlety," Uther says slowly, in that tone that as a child Arthur thought meant he was being especially wise and grave, but now realizes just means that Uther isn't sure if he's being had. 

"Yes," Arthur says. That idiot Merlin is grinning. Arthur foresees several days of cleaning the stables in his future in his immediate future.

Morgana's eyes are wide. "Well," she says. "You learn something knew every day, don't you?"

Merlin bursts into laughter again.

*****

 

Arthur does make Merlin muck out the stables, but Merlin is spiteful and cruel and doesn't seem at all put out. Rather, every time he sees Arthur he says something foolish like, "Oh, I heard there's an excellent bloom of blue poppies in the far meadow. Osanna might like it if you sent her some. Excellent remedy for toothache."

Stupid Merlin. Arthur's only mildly ashamed that his first reaction is to throw something. He spends more time than he should thinking up awful, tedious chores as retribution, but his anger is dissipated as preparations for the arrival of King Bayard of Mercia and the entire Mercian court get under way. He is Crown Prince; he has more important things to worry about than that smile that never seems to leave Merlin's face. And then of course Merlin has to go and be stupidly courageous and entirely more prescient than Arthur would ever have given him credit for and save Arthur's life.

*****

Merlin is pale and silent. The pallor of death is on him. Arthur has seen it before. He is young, but men have followed him to battle. Not all of them have followed him home. Merlin's skin is tight across his cheekbones. His cracked lips are parted just barely. He looks ...

"How long does he have?" Arthur asks.

"Three days," Gaius says. The old man is haggard. He has been up all night. Gwen is pensive, hovering. They are Merlin's friends, Arthur realizes, and they are worried. "Maybe four. Not longer."

There is an ache in Arthur's chest he doesn't understand.

*****

Merlin lives. He is weak and skinny and has nearly caused a war, but he lives.

"You shouldn't have gone," Merlin says. It is morning and Arthur is due in the courtyard to inspect a batch of recruits from the borderlands. Merlin is dressing him. His fingers work into the red fabric of Arthur's tunic, and ordinarily Arthur would scold him -- the fabric does wrinkle -- but there's a line of worry between Merlin's eyebrows that Arthur isn't used to seeing and a sober cast to his mouth that Arthur doesn't like.

"You saved my life," Arthur says, indignant. "Besides, it’s what protocol required.” 

He's not proud that he nearly let his father's words sway him. He's not proud that it took Morgana to set him straight. He hopes Merlin never knows how close Arthur came to letting him die. 

"I'm just a servant," Merlin says. He taps Arthur on the shoulder, and helps him on with the tunic. "There are dozens of potential manservants. They're probably queuing up at the castle gates as we speak. There's only one Crown Prince."

Merlin's managed to put the tunic on all wrong. He's trying to stuff Arthur's head up a sleeve. It doesn't fit. Merlin's hands are suddenly on Arthur's ribs. His fingertips are rough and it's entirely beneath Arthur's dignity to be tickled, thank you very much. He's glad he's tangled in the shirt if only because he has a sneaking suspicion his cheeks might be red.

"I can dress myself, Merlin," he says, stepping away. He clears his throat, and pulls the tunic down over his head.

Merlin is watching him with that strange, bemused smile on his face.

"I wasn't sure," he says. "You might not have had the chance to learn, what with all the time you have to spend being courageous and noble and gallant and ..."

"Yes," Arthur says. "Well, I've found the time." He busies himself buckling his belt. "I should be thanking you, anyway. I don't know what you were thinking, grabbing that chalice, but you saved my life first. So. You know. Turn about is fair play."

"It's like that, is it?" Merlin says, shaking his head. "You're a better man than your father would have you think, Arthur."

Arthur closes his eyes. He will never be as good a man as he ought to be, no matter what a simple boy like Merlin thinks. "Are you insulting your King?"

Merlin's face -- already pale -- goes whiter. "No, Sire. Not at all."

He is indiscreet, but Arthur thinks that Merlin is a better man than most would think, too. 

"I'm late," he says. 

"You haven't eaten your breakfast," Merlin says, frowning.

"You eat it," Arthur says, a funny expansive feeling blooming in his chest. "You look like you'll tip over in a strong breeze. It's pathetic." 

Merlin grins, and that funny feeling in Arthur's chest explodes like the fireworks the peddlers bring sometimes. He can't stand it. He is late, and he goes.

*****

"I've given up that you'll ever be able to fulfill your duties properly," Arthur says, not unkindly. "But you can at least look the part."

Merlin scowls at him. "What's wrong with my hair? It's nice hair. It's never done you any wrong."

"It is affront every time I have to look at you," Arthur says. "Which, to my misfortune, is nearly every day." 

Merlin looks miserable. 

"A haircut never hurt anyone," Arthur says. He has his own cut every fourth week. 

The cook, brandishing a pair of large sheers, grins. "He's right, you know. You might think keeping it longer hides those _ears_ , but trust me, lovely, you're not fooling anyone."

Merlin turns scarlet. His cheeks turns scarlet and his ears turn scarlet and his neck is hidden by that stupid scarf thing (the days of which are numbered) but Arthur's sure that's red too. He's probably flush all the way down to his chest. Not that Arthur's really spent much time thinking about Merlin's bony chest. Not at all.

"Yes, well," he says, cross. "Get on with it."

The cook snips away. Merlin quails, lips bloodless, fingers digging into his thighs. 

It's over soon enough. Merlin's brushing snips of hair from his collar and the cook is looking like she let a suckling pig run out of her kitchen still squealing.

"How do I look?" he asks, making a foolish face.

"Much improved," the cook says.

"Marginally less foolish," Arthur says. The haircut is very nice, but undue compliments would go to both Merlin's and the cook's head. Neither of them need it.

On the way up to his chambers, Arthur asks, "That wasn't so bad, was it? You must surely have had a hair cut before. You didn't arrive in Camelot with hair down to your a ... to your knees."

"I had my mum do it," Merlin says. "Not some maniac with giant sheers who's convinced I keep nicking her pastries."

Arthur's never heard Merlin mention his parents before. He'd always imagined that Merlin had parents -- had a mum with blue eyes as bright as his in a more worn face, and a dad with dark hair and his same stupid smile -- but he'd never asked. It wasn't the kind of thing one talked about with one's servants. 

"And do you nick her pastries?"

Merlin shrugs. "I wouldn't tell you if I did. Give me some credit." 

He grins and steps lively, his (barely) longer stride taking him just out of reach of Arthur's cuffing.

*****

Arthur is in charge of taking inventory of the castle treasury. It's tedious work, but there are riches locked beneath Camelot that exceed even the most avaricious imaginings. It is not a task that can be trusted to anyone -- not even the Prince's manservant. 

Merlin, freed from his normal obligations, is sent by Gaius to retrieve precious herbs from various unpleasant bogs and damp caves and other places. He goes with Arthur's blessing, and a welt on his arm where Arthur thumped him when he'd said something cheeky about stopping in to see the Lady Osanna. 

Arthur spends tedious hours in the dark dungeon, sneezing horribly every time Leon opens another dusk-filled casket. In the afternoons he practices with his men, working out his frustration on dummies of wood and straw. He dines with his father and Morgana. His days are full, as duty dictates they should be.

The maidservant who brings his breakfast in the morning is quiet and courteous. She spills nothing. She is all wrong.

He doesn't sleep well. He shifts and turns and punches his pillow, unable to get comfortable. He thinks that anyone who trusts Merlin to make his way through the wilderness alone without breaking one or several limbs is entirely lacking in wits. He thinks he ought to go reprimand Gaius for sending Merlin off on a wild chase for some stupid flowers when there are bandits and enemy soldiers and worse things -- pockets of dark, dangerous magic left hidden deep in the forest where the bright light of Camelot cannot dispel them. 

It's a wild thought that grips him, but it's all wrong. It's not seemly for a prince to be so concerned with the minor goings on of castle servants. It's not proper for him to question the judgment of a man as wise and loyal as Gaius. It's not right.

What little sleep he manages is broken. He dreams of Merlin, alone and cold, sleeping under a starless sky.

He passes Morgana in the hall the next morning. She stops him with a hand on his wrist.

"Dear Arthur," she says. "You look like you need one of Gaius' sleep draughts."

"I'm fine," he says roughly.

"You are unduly worried about the inventory," she says softly, smiling. "Uther set you that task to give you a taste of what it feels like to be the master of so much greatness, but you don't crave power like he does, do you?" Her eyes meet his. Morgana is spoiled and petty and frivolous. She is very wise at the most unexpected moments.

"I want to do my duty." Arthur's throat is tight, maybe just in anticipation of the choking dust of the dungeons.

"But the blindly obedient cannot be sure what master they follow, hm?" Her red lips curve up in a smile.

"Of course, Morgana."

He thinks to be rid of her with a platitude.

Her smiles falters. "Don't worry," she says. "He'll be back tonight. I think he'll be back tonight."

He wants to puff his chest and ask who she means, but they both know.

*****

Merlin comes back three days later, which is two days later than he ought to have.

He stumbles into Arthur's chambers far too early, banging the door, stumbling over nothing, making an improbable racket.

Arthur isn't at all sure why he was worried. He isn't lucky enough for Merlin to get lost in the woods or eaten by a bear or something. He groans and roles over, pulling the pillow over his head. 

"Rise and shine, Sire," Merlin says, chipper. "Clearly without me around this place is going to the dogs. Did you think your clothes would eventually become sentient and crawl down to the laundry themselves?" 

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut.

"I wanted to make sure that there was plenty of work for you to do upon your return," Arthur mumbles. "So you know what a valued member of the staff you are."

He sits up, unwillingly. Merlin is picking up a few filthy tunics that have somehow ended up balled up under the desk. His cheeks are red with sunburn and his hair is a mess and --

"What is that ridiculous thing on your chin?" Arthur blinks. It's still early. He may be imaging it. "You look like a goat."

Merlin grins. "Just trying out a new look." He lowers his eyes.

Arthur shakes his head. "Absolutely not. You -- and by extension I -- will be the laughing stock of all Camelot." 

Merlin frowns, opens his mouth like he's about to say something (when does he _not_ say something?), and then shuts it again. He looks different, Arthur thinks. The beard is ridiculous -- but it's not just that. He's grown since he came to Camelot. Arthur is no deluded court-bound fool. He knows the reality of life in a village -- what little stability and comfort the people have is tentative, threatened by drought and storm and flood and pillaging bandits. The people live -- they marry and have children and harvest their crops -- but their children are thin and their faces haggard. Whatever his life was like before (and how could Arthur know, not being able to ask?), the thick stone walls and regular meals of Camelot have agreed with Merlin. He is still thin, but it is a sleek, strong thinness. Merlin may wilt like a flower in noon sun when Arthur recruits him to face the knights in practice, but he can carry two full buckets of water up from the well for Arthur's bath. 

"How old are you, Merlin?" Arthur asks. 

Merlin narrows his eyes and makes a funny little motion with his head. "Eighteen this past winter." 

Older than Arthur would have guessed, but younger that Merlin's occasional bouts of wisdom would suggest. 

"Had you no-one to show you how to shave?"

Merlin shuffles his feet, ducks his head. It's rare Arthur's ever seen him look so uncomfortable.

"Late bloomer, I suppose," he says. Then -- "It was just me and my mum. Never knew my father. Mum didn't talk about him much."

How could Arthur have known? He knows the hole that a missing parent can leave in one's heart though. His absent (dead) mother shaped his childhood just as much as his living, breathing father. 

"If you'd read the Code of Conduct --"

"I threw it in the dung heap," Merlin says. "As you instructed."

"Well, yes." Arthur really wouldn't rather have news of the ruined book get back to Geoffrey. "If you _had_ read it, you'd know that servants are expected to be clean-shaven." 

"I apologize," Merlin says, grave. "I will ask Gaius to show me."

Arthur shakes his head and steps nearer. "I'll show you," he says. "I will make an exemplary servant of you yet, Merlin." He pulls his chair closer. "Sit."

Merlin sits. Arthur gets his things from his cupboard -- the blade his father gave him when he turned fifteen, his looking glass, a bowl and brush and a pot of soft soap. 

Merlin left a bucket of water for Arthur's washing near the door. Arthur pours some into the bowl. He hesitates, and then puts his hand on Merlin's chin. His skin, under the fuzz of short black hair, is soft. "I'm just trying to keep you from looking like a complete idiot, you know," he says.

"I know," Merlin says. "Always looking out for me." There is affection in his tone that Arthur's not entirely sure is warranted. It startles him.

His fingers rest on Merlin's chin. His thumb rests in the hollow of Merlin's throat and he tries not to think about how his large, sword-calloused hands look against Merlin's pale skin. He can feel the tremble of Merlin's heart, an insect-wing rush that belies Merlin's stillness, his calm, half-lidded eyes.

"Well," Arthur says. "Someone has to."

Arthur's always been old for his age -- he rode patrols with the knights when he was a boy of fourteen, still soft with youth and barely able to lift the full-size sword and shield he had to carry. His father has never cut him a break. By sixteen he was leading men ten, fifteen years his senior. They obeyed him at first because he was their prince. They obey him now because he has earned their respect in a hundred fights, in dozens of tourneys, in the judgment he hopes he demonstrates in every decision. He started shaving when he was sixteen, because the other men did. Arthur could barely grow a bit of fuzz on his upper lip. That didn't matter; what mattered was the ritual. 

He lathers the soap until it is thick and smooth. He doesn't want to hurt Merlin. No, that is the last thing he wants to do. He brushes some along Merlin's jaw, in the ridiculous hollows of his cheeks. He looks half wastrel, even now when Arthur is standing so close he can feel the solid heat of Merlin's body, smell the rough, mannish scent of him. 

He gets a bit of soap on the tip of Merlin's nose, and wipes it off. Merlin's blue eyes follow his, and Arthur looks away.

The blade is sharp. Arthur is a man who live and dies by his sword; he does not leave his razor wet and filthy, to rust and dull into uselessness. He would no sooner sheath a sword still dripping with enemy blood. He makes a show of examining it, wiping it clean with a bit of cloth he keeps for the purpose. Merlin is watching him still, foolish behind his lather beard, eyes still so bright they startle.

"Look up," he says, quietly.

Outside, there's the familiar rattle and tramp of men and horses setting out. The patrol rides without Arthur today.

Merlin tips his chin up. His hair falls away from his face. His neck is absurdly long, and Arthur wonders if he's a distant relation to those long-legged, long-necked fellows in the storybooks he read as a child. He liked those stories, full of tales of magic and mystery and strange creatures from far away lands. They'd been a gift from his nurse. When Uther found them, they burned, and his nurse, poor woman, spent two days in the stocks. 

She would have been executed, had she not been of noble blood and had the transgression not been so well-intentioned and harmless.

He rests the blade against Merlin's neck, right below the jut of his Adam's apple. Merlin is utterly still, and Arthur thinks this is is not so different than holding a blade at the throat of some filthy bandit. 

It's much more terrifying. He is surprised to find his hands are trembling. He takes a breath.

"You have no compunction about a champion swordsman holding a blade to your throat," he says, voice low.

Merlin smiles, just barely, looking preposterous (more so than usual) with that soap on his face. "No," he says. "I trust you."

Arthur exhales. He trusts him. Arthur has not led Merlin in battle. Merlin has not stood by his side in the midst of the fray and looked over and known by looking that Arthur will fight for him -- with him -- until the last breath leaves his body and his sword falls from his limp hands.

Arthur hasn't done anything for Merlin, except unwillingly take him on as a servant and halfheartedly try to keep him from making a total muck of things. 

And Merlin trusts him.

"I don't know if you're the best judge of character I've ever met," Arthur says, "Or the stupidest man in the entire world."

Merlin laughs silently, his eyes closing, his lashes absurdly dark and long. "Not sure myself," he says.

"Hold still," Arthur says, a hand on Merlin's shoulder. "If I slit your throat by accident who would clean up the blood?"

That's an awful thing to say, Arthur thinks, but his entire world is coarse and crude and hard. Merlin -- stupid, lovely, awkward Merlin -- is the one who doesn't fit. Merlin doesn't fit, but every time he thinks Merlin will cower or fall short he demonstrates unexpected bravery and strength.

Merlin stills. Arthur takes a deep breath and thinks about the archery lessons he took as a youth. The archery master had been old and fat with beery breath, but his assistant -- oh, his assistant. Ralph had been a lad of eighteen, ancient-seeming in Arthur's child eyes. He had been quick to laugh and quick to smile and had chestnut hair that curled near his jaw. 

Arthur remembers the way Ralph's hands felt on him as he corrected Arthur's grip and straightened his shoulders.

He feels the same way now, although it's his hands on Merlin.

He feels like _he_ could shake apart.

Merlin is waiting.

Slowly, Arthur drags the blade up the length of Merlin's neck to the hollow just below his jaw. He is young, yet, and there's not much to shave, really, but the pale skin is obscene anyway. Naked, Arthur thinks, and shakes his head, because Merlin's not naked at all. He begins again, setting the blade at an angle against Merlin's throat, running it up, short dark hair and soap sloughing away. He finds a rhythm, a steady smooth pace of moving the blade against Merlin's skin, wiping it off on the towel. Merlin is so still, but Arthur can see his chest rise and fall. Everything is so stupid and mixed up in his mind -- this is nothing and everything, showing Merlin how to shave. Arthur can't even remember who showed him. Might have been Uther, in a rare moment of fatherly pride, or it might just have been something he picked up from spending too much time among men when he was just a boy.

There's a tiny dip under Merlin's chin. Funny that Arthur's never noticed it. He is careful. Without thinking he cradles Merlin's jaw in his hand, steadying them both. The blade catches the light. The blade is not gentle enough, Arthur thinks. It catches at minute imperfections in Merlin’s skin. It is not nearly half so gentle as Arthur would be, if it were his fingers running up the column of Merlin's neck, along the line of his jaw.

It doesn't take long. Neck, jaw, one cheek, the other, chin, and the delicate space over Merlin's red upper lip.

Arthur's hands grow steadier, but his heart beats fast. He thinks he is finished but he sees a few long hairs just south of Merlin's cheekbone. "Wait, I missed a spot." 

He takes up the blade again, and finishes the job.

"There," he says. "Much better."

Merlin grins. "I feel like a sheep."

"You have the brains of one," Arthur says. The familiar back and forth of their banter is a relief. He clears his throat. "I expect you to maintain an appearance that befits a servant of the heir to the throne." 

Merlin's eyes narrow, and his lips part like he's about to speak, and Arthur is suddenly not sure at all he wants to hear what Merlin might say.

"Oh, fine," he says quickly. "I just can't have you walking around looking like some sort of deranged goat. It’s not like it _really_ matters." He throws the wet towel at Merlin, and walks over to his desk. He has no work that needs his immediate attention, but he is very good at looking busy when it suits him.

Merlin just laughs.

*****

Later, in the night, when the castle is silent but loud, every footfall echoing through the stone halls, Arthur thinks that a blade of quality and the fragrant soap milled from rosemary and sheep's milk are not the kinds of things that a manservant can afford. He knows exactly how much Merlin is paid for his duties -- one gold piece a month, after the price of his lodging and board are deducted. It's a generous wage, but it's a servant's wage all the same. 

Arthur could easily go to the steward of the castle and demand the key to the storeroom. He could take a dozen blades, blocks of fine soap, bolts of the best cloth -- it's all his. He doesn't do that though -- he takes a few gold pieces and he goes down to the lower town on an afternoon, and he buys a blade of lesser quality, and soap not quite as fine as what he uses, but good enough. Good enough, he thinks, that Merlin won't scrape his fair skin raw.

He doesn't know quite why that matters, but it does.

He takes the things to Gaius' room when he knows Merlin is down in the stables. The old man looks surprised when he opens the door.

"Oh," he says, in his peculiar, befuddled way. "Hello, Sire. Merlin isn't in ..."

"Yes, yes," Arthur says, a little too quickly. "I know, Gaius. I sent him down to clean my saddle again. I think the first time he may have cleaned it with mud instead of soap." He looks around. The room is a cluttered mess, and Arthur thinks it's really no surprise that Merlin is such an absolute disaster of a servant.

"Is there anything ..."

"This is for him," Arthur says. He hands Gaius the package. His palms are damp, which is stupid. He's faced the mightiest warriors in the Five Kingdoms in battle. This is Camelot, and he is her prince. Nothing here should set him so ill at ease. "I told him I'd get him ... It's not important." 

Gaius' eyes narrow. "I will let him know you left it, Sire. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No, no," Arthur says. "I'm late, in fact. I must go see to the men returning from patrol."

He doesn't wait for Gaius to reply, although he's proud that his retreat is slightly more dignified than a bolt. Out in the hall, he takes a deep breath. After a moment, he feels himself again, and he goes to attend to his men.

*****

Merlin never mentions the gift, and for that Arthur thanks any of the many gods that might be listening, old or new.

The beard does not make a return appearance.

*****

It's not an official duty of the crown prince but for several years now Arthur has volunteered (under slight duress from Morgana and Gwen) to take the huge stew pots down to the river and scour them clean. They are massive things, and it takes all the men Arthur can spare from patrol to haul them up from the kitchens and on to the wagons.

Arthur thought his father would reprimand him when he found out that he was wasting the strength of Camelot on cleaning cookery, but Uther had just smiled.

"It is important to show our gratitude to those lesser people who, through their efforts, enable Camelot to be the place of bounty and ease that she is." 

Arthur thinks about how the cook, despite her intimidating mien, always slipped him pastries when he went to the kitchen as a child. He thinks about the silent army of servants who scrub floors and beat rugs and chop wood. And he thinks, now, of Merlin especially.

The Day of the Pots, as it is known, has become something of a holiday. Morgana rides out, somber in her rich gown, accompanied by a fair bevy of her handmaids. They have packed cold meats and loaves of bread and fruit in hampers, for after the work is done. The knights are free from their usual sobriety. Dressed in old, torn clothing they joke and laugh and shove at each other, when they're not taking their turn steadying the cooking pots in the wagons.

At the river, there's a bit of a moment when Arthur thinks one of the pots is going to roll off the wagon before the men are ready, crushing limbs and wrecking havoc, but just as he thinks it's about to go over it stills, like it's balanced right on the cusp. He narrows his eyes, and looks around. The men have regained their composure, and prepare to bear its weight. Merlin is skulking in the shadows, and when Arthur scowls at him (a scowl that is intended to communicate that he should get his scrawny self to the wagon and help his betters), his eyes flash a curious gold color, just for a moment, before fading to the familiar blue.

Arthur shakes his head. Trick of the light, surely.

The pots are deposited in the soft sand of the riverbank, and the knights scrub loose months of caked grime. They are filthy and soapy and Morgana's maids laugh at them when they're not looking.

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest and looks on his men with satisfaction. 

Merlin, suddenly at his side, bumps into him. "The knights are at servant's work," he says. "Not at all the right way of things. What would the Code of Conduct have to say?"

Arthur scowls. "Nonsense," he says. "There are no other men in the kingdom with the strength required for this task." 

Merlin tilts his head in that way he has that makes Arthur feel certain he doubts everything Arthur says. 

"Alright, fine," he says. "They enjoy it. Even knights of Camelot are entitled to a bit of fun once in a while, Merlin. They work hard enough the rest of the time, which is more than I can say for you."

Merlin doesn't rise to the bait. "What about Princes of Camelot?" he asks, in a funny sort of voice.

Arthur tips his chin down. "My pleasure is subject to the duties of my office, which are numerous." He may have gotten that line from Uther. It sounds a bit like his father, anyway. 

Merlin looks grave. He is truly the strangest person Arthur has ever known. 

"Cheer up," he says airly, clapping Merlin on the shoulder. "My duties weight but lightly now, Merlin. Let's go catch fish and leave the knights to make fools of themselves in peace."

Arthur puts Leon in charge. Merlin carries the nets and equipment. They walk along the river until it runs into the forest, and then they follow the footpath through the trees. There is a cool dark pool not even a mile from where the men work and play. Arthur comes here once in a while, not to fish always. The trips have become less frequent in recent years, as his duties have grown more onerous.

Merlin dumps the equipment on the ground and groans. "Feels like you had me carrying an entire boat," he mutters to himself. 

Arthur thinks it's probably just more for effect, as he has seen Merlin shoulder much greater burdens with no complaint.

"Fine fishing here," he says, busying himself with some line. 

"Did your father teach you?" Merlin asks curiously.

It's always like this -- all boundaries fall away when they are alone. 

"No," Arthur says. "Uther? Fish? Can you even imagine?"

Merlin grins. "I can't, to be honest. He’d probably shout at the fish, ordering to denounce the evils of fish kind and leap up into his basket for the good of Camelot."

Arthur snorts, incredulous. "The evils of fish kind, Merlin?"

Merlin grins at him. "They're devilish creatures. A carp once tried to take off my mate's toes." 

Of course Merlin must have had friends, back wherever he came from. He's never spoken of them, and Arthur's never asked. He doesn't have a great deal of experience with friends himself. He always thought that to be friends with a person you had to be their peer -- and none are the peer of the Prince of Camelot.

He's not so sure now.

"Poor fish," he says. "Probably dropped dead of fright."

"I resent that," Merlin says. "My mate's feet might have been a bit nasty, but I'm sure the fish died of completely unrelated natural causes."

He grins. Arthur rolls his eyes, but he grins too, when Merlin turns his head.

It is hot even in the shade. They take off their shoes and Arthur takes off his tunic. After a pause, Merlin does too. He isn't all bony limbs and angles, the way he looks in his too-big clothes. There's a patch of dark hair on his chest.

Arthur is trying not to think about that, although for once Merlin is not providing distraction. For all that Merlin tends to prattle on without pausing for breath at times, he is also capable of a very still quiet. Arthur likes it. It's not the quiet of people who bite their tongues because they are the presence of their Prince, it's just -- a pause in a flow.

Merlin catches the first fish. His rod bends, and he looks up startled.

"Well, pull it in," Arthur says, shaking his head. "You've done this before, I thought you said."

"Not with these sticks." Merlin heaves; there is lean muscle in his arms that Arthur did not expect, but he's apparently hooked some deep-sea beast. It thrashes and his pole bends. “We used nets.”

"Fishing poles," Arthur says. "The technology is simple enough that even you should comprehend it." He watches for another moment, and then can watch no longer. "Here, let me."

He steps behind Merlin and puts his hands on the pole over Merlin's. Merlin's hands are cool, his fingers long. Arthur stands so close that the bare skin of his chest touches the bare, heat-soaked skin of Merlin's back (very pale, spotted with dark beauty marks). 

It's the closest Arthur can remember being to anyone in a very long time.

He heaves. The rod bends. Arthur pulls. He will not be outdone by some fish. He takes a deep breath and digs in his feet and ...

The rod snaps in two with a startling noise. Merlin jumps, and Arthur loses his footing in the slippery mud of the bank, and they go tumbling down in a pile of arms and legs and elbows, more of which seem to belong to Merlin than should be possible. The broken end of the rod swirls in the eddying water and then drifts downstream. 

"Sire," Merlin says, and honestly, considering he's practically _lounging_ on Arthur, the formality is uncalled for. "I believe your hands are on my pole."

He is doing an absolutely terrible job at keeping his face straight.

Arthur drops the other half of the broken fishing pole, startled. He swallows, and tries to compose himself so that he can reply with the dignity befitting a member of the royal household.

But Merlin is looking at him with those bright eyes and as he's already in Arthur's arms it seems utter idiocy to waste the opportunity. Arthur lifts his head and slides one hand up Merlin's back to rest at the place where his neck meets his shoulders. He kisses him, as he's wanted to do for much longer than he's been able to admit, even to himself. Merlin's lips are chapped and there's a bit of mud on his cheek and it's entirely delightful. He breathes in and rolls his shoulders like a cat and kisses Arthur back.

Arthur is warm and his lips are pleasantly tingly and he's not at all inclined to stop when Merlin rolls abruptly off. It's not beneath the royal dignity to clutch at him a bit needily.

"Is that the next lesson in how to be a proper servant of the crown?" Merlin asks. He is limp and boneless and filthy and Arthur is not sure he's ever wanted to touch anyone more. "'All servants should display their gratitude to knights of the realm through amorous gestures.' I'll remember that next time Osric helps me saddle your horse."

"Don't be stupid, Merlin," Arthur mumbles. "That's not in the Code of Conduct." He gives Merlin a sidelong look. "Osric? Do you really want to ... amorous gesture Osric?"

"No," Merlin says, laughing. "He thinks he's getting one over on you by helping me."

Arthur doesn't approve of such seditious impulses, even from a man as brave as Osric. "I shall have to have a talk with him." 

Merlin rolls his eyes, and moves a little further away from Arthur.

Arthur thinks of something then, and then continues hurriedly, "Of course there's nothing specifically forbidding amorous gestures between knights of the realm and servants of the royal household."

Merlin nods. 

"If both parties are willing, of course," Arthur continues. He swallows, and looks up at the green ceiling of the forest. "The knight is willing." His voice sounds strange and small and choked and he can't bring himself to look at Merlin. He's afraid of what he'll see.

There's a pause that's just a little too long, and then Merlin says, "The servant is willing too, you prat." 

He rolls back into the circle of Arthur's arms and kisses him again.


End file.
